Comp. 3465 invited you to write a centre-aligned poem, with a hidden message running down the middle. The brief was tough, and some concessions had to be made. Deserving of a mention: Tracy Davidson, Chris Oswald, Nick Syrett, Nicholas Lee, Brian Murdoch, and David Silverman for his eggtimer poem. Extra props for connecting theme with encoded message. The prizes go to those below.
At first I strive to get the meter right,
my verse, it seems to me will never scan
or else the rhythm’s out, the words take flight,
oh, pray relieve me of this futile plan.
And yet I’m staying here, you ask me why?
to prove for certain I can write a verse,
creative juices seem in short supply,
I’d write a sonnet to my toes, or worse,
what can the topic be? Just light my fire,
I’ve writers’ block, I’m stuck, try as I may,
the muse won’t steal inside me to inspire.
Such misery! Yes, this could be the way,
I could narrate my wretched life, compose
a tragic, heartfelt poem upon my woes.
Sylvia Fairley
You must remember this: fear the extreme.
Each choice you make is fraught. A candidate
who fiercely boosts a new design may seem
to be the one whose way will aid the state,
but a fanatic’s sure to twist things, fiddle
with everything we do. The road is long;
we ought to walk precisely down the middle,
to guarantee that nothing grave goes wrong.
Max Gutmann
If there was magic, if some pagan god
allowed us time, the space to take our age
back into fancy, choice say, of some odd
remake, reset, is this what you would stage
for both of us? You say your century’s
finding America or somewhere such –
all travelling, the restless switchback seas,
tracking the dog star, sailing out of touch.
Of course, and I meanwhile, stuck here at home
would sit reluctant, know long sleepless dread
fearing what shore, which continent you roam,
hoping for just one word that you’re not dead.
Loving and loyal? I’d not call it so
although I know you’d pick your time to go.
D.A. Prince
You advocate, dear Internet,
I give AI a click,
But realise please, I must decline,
I tend to get on quick,
I’m never lost for words too long,
With time I work it out,
I truly don’t find this a chore,
You never need to doubt,
It’s kind of you to offer, how
You try to play the friend,
To hint at help but it is not
for me to recommend,
Perhaps you write angelically,
though few say this about you –
I will stay bloody but unbowed,
And pen this poem without you.
Janine Beacham
A bustling life is what most of us face,
When day after day is a swift rapid race.
We are told to do this then do that as well
As if our short life meant living in Hell.
Success is assured if doing our best
We toil every day full of vigour and zest.
We wake up aware of all we must do,
Ever keen to take care and be diligent too.
Refusing to rest, we get things done,
Nobody needs to have time for fun.
No breaks for tea, no chance to sit back
We don’t have the time to dither or slack.
Life beckons us all to slog and to work
Never desiring to stand still and shirk.
Our aim is to run and to keep up the pace
Not being afraid to stare work in the face.
Alan Millard
Have you any car in mind?
Our EVs are all here on show,
Each a dream to drive you’ll find –
Very fewdiscounted, though.
No silly offers from us, but,
For a man as knows what’s what
Bits and pieces could be cut
To get you a deal here on the spot –
One I know you’re bound to like.
With nothing now for you to lose
It’s all about the deal we’ll strike,
All the cars are there to choose –
Beamer or Mini, as you prefer,
It’s business as it should be, sir.
W.J. Webster
Every weekend we’d eat out
before we split. His shout
he always said. The treat was his.
He’d pay the bill: caviar and fizz!
His cards were down, the stingy git
controlled my life, the whole of it:
night or dawn, middle of the day,
the scheming rat; he would hold sway.
The household costs, said he, fair play,
he’d proudly boast of how he’d pay.
Light dawned. Of course. I wisely quit;
he sadly wept he’d do his bit,
be the provider always. Now I’m wiser.
Praise be, I’ve forgotten that old miser.
My newbie’s love, his warmth and care,
and daily costs, cash, all we share.
Shirley Curran
You ask: ‘What is the worst that Fate can throw
at us to set the path we chose askew?’
That journey to our mortal goal, we know,
seems well within our reach, and yet our due
relies upon success that’s in the hands
of not just us; and we must navigate
a fickle sea of happiness where bands
of monsters lie in dream-consuming wait.
So, you must make life work for you, instead.
Be kind, though fortune isn’t by your side.
When needed, always force a way ahead,
but not alone – a novice needs a guide.
For Destiny’s not straight and daily deals
with Time’s vague line of wheels within wheels.
Paul Freeman
No. 3468: The great renaming
After the Lake Ontario/Lake America business, you’re invited to submit a poem proposing alternative names for other places/people/things (16 lines max). Please email entries to competition@spectator.co.uk by 16 September.
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